


Sugarboy

by changbinglish



Category: GOT7, Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alcohol, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Canon Compliant, Come Eating, Come Swallowing, Friends With Benefits, Inferiority Complex, M/M, Oral Sex, Reunion Sex, Riding, Skrrt skrrt the horny coup comes to a screeching halt and I step out of it disgustingly, They both get drunk but it's extremely consensual, idolverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 07:54:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22232656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/changbinglish/pseuds/changbinglish
Summary: (Sugarboy, I'm in need, how I wish for somethin' sweet)Suffice to say, Chan has always had some sort of inferiority complex. But overwhelming his inferiority is the attraction he's always felt, palpable now as they simultaneously reach to pay for the other's meal. Bambam jokes that they're dining on JYP's account. Chan laughs from a place below his chest.(I am a lot like you, I am alone like you)
Relationships: Bang Chan & Kunpimook Bhuwakul | BamBam, Bang Chan/Kunpimook Bhuwakul | BamBam
Comments: 15
Kudos: 128





	Sugarboy

**Author's Note:**

> I promise I’m not trying to make any bold comments about The Industry or personal lives or anything I’m literally just horny. Title is from the song [“Sugarboy” by St. Vincent](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RipHZ3Y-hys). Talk to me on Twitter and Curious Cat @changbinglish

If you lay their schedules on top of each other, you’ll hardly see any empty spaces, gaps so sparse that even the free time feels deliberated by forces out of their control. Their work is equally unforgiving and Chan is somewhat grateful for that. Because it means that he’s made it now, he’s the same amount of busy and that should make them equals. Equals once again, but Chan wonders if they ever were.

He feels like they could be equals when he gets the text from Bambam confirming dinner together, just the two of them, on this blue moon of free time. The feeling of equality is partially diminished when they meet at the restaurant and he feels severely underdressed, because Bambam looks like he belongs there, like he's part of the decor, sleek and polished in a suit jacket and silk shirt, with crisp shoes that Chan suspects are Dior or Prada or something. He should expect this from Bambam by now, but it's been a while, he justifies to himself, as he tries to push past the inadequacy of his own cable knit sweater, which probably clashes with the ambiance somehow.

They exchange "what's up, man" with casual masculinity, but both of them know better than anyone else that everything they do is rehearsed, every greeting, every gesture. Maybe if you practice something enough, it’s okay for it to become part of you. There’s still the rest of the night to shed their layers and remember how to act like themselves. 

Everything on the menu hovers a few thousand won above Chan’s usual budget. Still, some things never change, like how Bambam is hopelessly incapable of putting on weight in any form, fat or muscle. Chan is hardly ever attracted to his body type, but it's Bambam. The exception to most of his rules. In the absence of physical substance, he holds years of familiarity. Even under suit jackets and jewelry that cost more than a car, Chan knows him, sees him.

“Jackson-hyung gave this to me when he came back from his Cartier event.” Bambam holds out his wrist and lets Chan observe the timepiece in the warm cone of light over the table before their food comes out. It glints in gold but they both care more about the touch of hands, savoring Chan’s thumb gliding across Bambam’s fingers as they lean back in their seats. It really has been a while but the thing they value most has stayed the same.

So it’s two longtime friends, meeting up after forging their own paths into the spotlight, in similar directions but at different times. They both look damn good under the restaurant's strategic lighting, uninhibited by staff or other group members. Like they could almost be normal people enjoying gopchang and somek together.

They talk about all the ways their lives overlap, gossip-but-not about which staff members at the company are retiring soon, compare experiences with this choreographer and that producer. They talk shop in the way that their work lives are inextricably their personal lives and it’s nice to revel in that commonality, lament the optic damage dealt by flash bulbs.

Bambam looks fucking _good_. His skin is tan and perfect under this light, where nobody can manipulate the exposure or up the brightness to betray his complexion.

Chan accidentally thinks out loud, “Your skin is like, immaculate, man.” He says this like he isn’t surrounded by other idols on a daily basis, whose blemishes are as frequent and noticeable as tectonic plate movement. Even if his own pallor is some shade of desirable here, he can’t deny how Bambam’s skin tone is impeccable. Unfairly attractive.

While he downs the remainder of his drink, Bambam’s smile behind the rim is visible. “We both used to be so dark.”

“Yeah, but the difference is that you’ve _retained_ your melanation. People are always asking me if I’m sick.” 

Bambam laughs. “You don’t look sick right now. The opposite, actually.”

Chan chews gingerly on gristle and on the collective impressions his labelmate has made on him. Bambam was only born five months earlier than him, but it took Chan four more years to debut. He’s spent those four years trying to iron out the wrinkles distinguishing their levels of talent, trying to catch up and prove himself. Four years of calculating how to make things fair, while still being happy for his success, reconciling envy with support.

Suffice to say, Chan has always had some sort of inferiority complex. But overwhelming his inferiority is the attraction he's always felt, palpable now as they simultaneously reach to pay for the other's meal. Bambam jokes that they're dining on JYP's account. Chan laughs from a place below his chest.

Neither of them say it, but there's something unbearably hot about having seen each other grow up, wrestle with the awkward serpents of puberty, live through the sweltering hormone soup of trainee dorm life side-by-side. Bearing witness to their current stage of “glow-up,” as it were, turns them on considerably. They feel it in each other’s eyes as they eat and drink and talk and laugh and let their gazes focus, unfocus, wander with equal purpose.

They’ve done shit before. Back then it was goofing around at the dorms and, with the lights off, participating in confidential experiments to chase away the ever-sucking leech of loneliness.

Even back then Bambam seemed so sure of himself, back before he overtook Chan in height. They’d lay in the same bed and talk until the words and space between them ran out. It wasn’t romance, but maybe a mutual need to belong somewhere, maybe with each other.

“I don’t have any schedules tomorrow.” Bambam says, tracing at the condensation on his now empty glass. “And my cats miss you, Chris.”

Chan already knows what he‘s offering and he knows he’ll accept it with no hesitation. The drinks have conspired with the looks Bambam has been giving him, making him all sorts of warm, every part of him from the surface of his skin to the core of his belly to the deep, subtle freak-out in his heartstrings.

“I miss them too. You got an extra toothbrush for me?”

It’s nice to be called “Chris.”

His reply comes in a grin that twists Chan’s gut even more than the combination of meat and alcohol did. Bambam flits his tongue out and lightly kicks him under the table before reaching over to pull Chan’s mask over his face.

Chan leaves the restaurant first to draw away the initial crowd of fans and press, so Bambam can head straight home unfollowed. Chan has to ride back to the JYP building first then escape into a different car obscured by alleyway shadows. It feels like a video game stealth mission. There are too many risks involved and Bambam’s already had to relocate once before against his will. But with them, recklessness can become airborne. Contagious. Even if it is a paradox, recklessness within reason.

The security at Bambam’s apartment building ushers him in and he’s hit with cool air and more dim lighting once he gets in the pristine elevator, which feels like nobody on earth has ever been inside before, that’s how clean and impersonal it is. Wonders when he’ll be able to afford a nice place like this, move out of the unglamorous dorms he’s called home for almost a decade now. He’s not even looking at Bambam yet the illusion of equality loses its shine once more.

Chan’s been here a couple of times, and only once before without someone to buffer their tension. But like, Yugyeom _has_ to know about what goes on between them, right? He’s just never asked or talked about it to Chan’s face. Likewise, some of his own members have probably caught on, but never questioned it beyond a brief inquiring expression, the quirk of a brow and the decision to not press further.

What do they call it? “Don’t ask, don’t tell?”

At this point Chan’s overthinking has carried him to Bambam’s door and buzzed the button without him registering it, and it’s Bambam’s face that snaps him back to the present, completely wrecking any shred of imagined equality he’d been grasping onto.

Bambam’s lips look shinier now, his eyes have taken on an idle heat explained by the glass of wine in his hand. Giving Chan that look reserved for offscreen. He’s wearing a billowy half-kimono thing, embroidered chambray with huge sleeves cut at the midpoint between his wrists and elbow. The cropped hem is adorned with blue thread forming inky ocean waves, open at the front with nothing underneath, just his layered gold chains from earlier and a swath of tan skin to tease him before retreating into dark lounge pants. Chan forgets if he was feeling tired now that he’s standing in the doorway, starting to get hard again.

Stepping into the dimmest room he’s been in tonight, he hears some faint mewls from different parts of the room. Only one of his cats likes Chan, the only one whose name he can remember, King skitters over to weave around his legs. There are two more eyeing him cautiously from the sofa as he removes his shoes.

Bambam pushes his glass into Chan’s hand. He knows nothing about wine and reckons Bambam either knows a lot or just slightly more than him. The only observation he can make is that what he’s drinking now is white, smells good, and makes his tongue coil with how aggressively sweet it is. Not like the solid sugar peach candies they’d shared before. Chan smiles and thinks it’s a grown-up kind of saccharine.

The apartment feels simultaneously cozy and imposing, like he can only belong in this space if he’s within touching range of Bambam. He hands the glass back to him, offering the last sip.

Bambam gestures to the bottle on his kitchen island. “Do you want more? I can pour you a glass—”

“No, I’m good. It’s good.” Chan minimizes the distance between them and traces his finger along the design on Bambam’s sleeve.

He chews on his own lip as he focuses on the mole beneath his eye. "You know, sometimes I look at your photos. And watch your performances. And I get really turned on.”

It’s sudden, but if it surprises Bambam he doesn’t show it. Just smiles, half-lidded eyes, white teeth. Here, the privacy emboldens them. 

"Yeah? What about right now?"

He slides his thigh in between Chan’s, searching for the answer himself. Chan responds with a gasp and groan while Bambam just chuckles and sucks on the side of his neck, kissing up his jaw. One of his hands ruches up the hem of Chan’s sweater, the drag of the fabric on his stomach makes him flinch. 

“Damn. _Damn_ , Chris. I fucking _wish_ I could get this big.”

Bambam traces his long fingers down the lines of Chan’s bicep in genuine admiration, mouth parted until his hand is wrapped loosely around Chan’s wrist. The other hand is still working his sweater up his body like they’ve got all the time in the world, which they know they don’t. Chan guides Bambam’s hand and they pull it up over his head. He’s about to drop it to the floor but Bambam catches it.

“Wait. Take that with you so Pudding doesn’t fuck it up.”

Still holding him by the wrist, he shoves Chan’s sweater back into his chest then tugs him along the hallway, bare feet padding across pristine hardwood into his bedroom. He’s not the type to interlace fingers. Chan knows this and is fine either way.

His bed is huge and about eighty-percent of the way made, gray covers stretched out over the mattress but not quite neat. The blinds are drawn shut, the windows permit no entering or escaping light until its automated set time.

Bambam closes the door behind them and moves his hand from Chan’s wrist to his waist, head tilting in curiosity. 

“Which photo of me turned you on the most?”

Chan’s synapses fire a mile a minute, in his head he tries to invoke the image of Bambam that most effectively blew his pupils wide, one that grabbed him and put smoke in his belly. He tries to pull the truth forward as he feels fingers running up his exposed hips and sides.

His answer is slow and measured. “I saw some of your album promos. When you wore the leather suit. You looked fucking incredible.”

He feels an exhale through a smile against his ear, then Bambam’s voice takes hold of him as it comes out hushed and deep.

“Thank you, baby. You gonna show how much you liked it?”

Chan nods and looks to his eyes, which are their natural brown. Not hindered by colored lenses, as they often are these days. Bambam pushes his long fingers through the curls of hair above Chan’s ear, giving him the gaze that feels almost like a trap. He stares at his mouth before closing the space between them.

It’s always a little different when they kiss. Sometimes they can taste each other’s lip balm and it’s an even chase. Right now the residual alcohol on their tongues are like unspoken dares. Chan’s lips are full, but Bambam’s are fuller, and they meet firmly, fervidly.

Neither of them can tell who pushes who onto the bed but that’s where they end up, making out and grabbing at each other with soft moans and a giggle each.

Bambam manages to get himself on top, holding himself over Chan with his self-assured smirk before sitting on his clothed cock, grinding his ass down on it. The friction, _finally_ some sweet fucking friction, makes Chan whine. Bambam bites his lower lip and rolls his body along, fingers snaking up to circle around Chan’s nipples. The sensations are a delicious combination of familiar and brand new, and his breathing communicates as much.

“Why do you get hotter every time I see you?” Bambam laughs and punctuates the flattery with a pinch to each hardened bud, yanking out a surprised cry from Chan’s throat. He tries to come up with a counter but Bambam swoops down with a kiss to his lips. Swallows up whatever Chan was or wasn’t about to say, then sits back up languidly.

Chan likes him best like this, Bambam straddling him on the bed, smiling stupidly so that only his front teeth show. The gold chain links wrapped around his neck shine even in the limited light, guarding Bambam’s sternum, looking like they were made to complement his bare skin. And he’s been drinking, they both have, so they move with a clumsy grace like their heads are too heavy but together their bodies are lighter than air.

“I’m about to show you a number,” Bambam starts, “and you tell me what you think, if you agree to the number.”

Chan’s brows wrinkle together. “What?”

Bambam doesn’t explain, he pulls his arms in close to his body and holds up three fingers on each hand, and then four on one and five on the other.

Six, nine.

_Oh._

“Oh my God. Why do you have to ask me like that.” They’re both shaking with laughter now. “I thought you were gonna like, show me a fucking magic trick or something.”

“It _is_ a magic trick,” he teases while cupping Chan through his jeans, making him jolt. “I’m gonna make your cock vanish into my mouth. And also the other way around.”

“Holy shit. You’re the most embarrassing sexy person.”

Bambam snorts before placing new kisses on Chan’s neck while his fingers unbutton and unzip his pants without a hitch. It makes Chan think back to the handful of other times they’ve done this. The first was almost two years after Bambam had debuted, he’d called Chan up while they were both at the company building, pulled him into a private study room so they could fuck quick on a desk, teeth digging into their lips to stay quiet, using dance practice as a cover-up for their following fatigue.

That was the only time that month he got to see Bambam at all, but the best was also here in Bambam’s apartment, when Chan took him over the kitchen counter, holding his arms behind his back while he pounded into him. They ordered pizza right after and Chan has yet to taste anything better than that post-coital combination of pepperoni and soju, even with Bambam complaining with his mouth full that he’d be sore until their next comeback.

It’s nice. It’s always nice. Bambam’s ridiculously good at taking the edge off. Anything they do becomes easier with him, sex included, with him it isn’t a performance he has to be anxious about. There’s no room for stage fright if it’s a private show and his only audience is this sexy shining goofball he’s known the last third of his life.

Chan closes his eyes and comes back to the now, lets Bambam claim him inch by inch without leaving evidence. Maybe he does mean it like a magic trick because he yanks Chan’s jeans off with a flourish, then goes back to mouthing at the contour of his jaw, gripping his bare thighs.

But Chan shows his want just the same. Smooths his palms up Bambam’s stomach to his chest, where the skin is pulled taut over the curve of his ribs and pushes the robe open slowly, so that it descends his shoulders like water cascading off a cliff. Bambam doesn’t do anything to shrug it off, just lets the fabric hang from his arms while he wriggles out of his own pants.

Then he peels himself off of Chan’s body, swiveling around to straddle him the other way. The maneuver is so close to being clumsy but Bambam stops himself before he can compromise their position. Chan feels him suck and bite at his inner thighs while touching every spot of skin that isn’t his cock, until slender fingers wrap around and start pumping steadily.

Heat multiplies through him, makes him moan and arch once Bambam’s plump lips start to crawl up his cock. Chan places a high value on fairness and this position should comply with that, but he finds it extremely fucking unfair that he can’t get a look at Bambam taking him into his mouth. Seeing his face is half the fun, and he’s never done it this way before. He wonders if Bambam has, and how many times.

He resolves to crane his neck up and start licking at Bambam’s cock, which hangs hard above his face. Right when he feels Bambam pull off for some air, Chan starts sucking, holding him in place by his thighs. Bambam’s whole body stutters at Chan suddenly swallowing him so deep. He whines before catching himself and going back to work on Chan’s cock.

When Bambam bobs his head, Chan feels the cold metal of his chain necklace rest on his belly. Each time it mixes with the heat of his skin and Bambam’s tongue. The sensation pushes him to lick more sloppily, blow him in that shameless obscene way he can only do outside of sobriety.

They groan with their throats full of each other, surrounding themselves in filthy wet sounds, Chan’s eyes just shy of fluttering completely shut. They finally close when he thrusts up into Bambam’s mouth, and he has to pull his head back to curse.

“Oh _fuck_ , Bambam,”

His nails dig into honeyed flesh and Bambam doesn’t gag or hesitate to suck his cheeks in around Chan, who fucks up into his willing mouth while he hisses and moans and jerks Bambam’s cock.

And Chan’s already close, having been pent up for so long, he just bucks and tries to give Bambam as much as he’s being given, neck straining to keep up the pace as he throats him.

Bambam pulls off for a moment, mumbling with his lips still pressed against Chan’s length, “come for me, Chris. Come in my mouth.”

Chan’s eyebrows knit together, he can’t help but do anything he tells him to. He arches up, his body meets Bambam’s and he’s coming down his throat, groaning pathetically around the other man’s hard dick. Bambam stays there, jaw slack and waiting until he’s pulsed out the last of his come, so he can swallow and slurp it up with a hum of satisfaction.

He gives one last suck to the head and buries his face into Chan’s thigh, spurring on his own orgasm by thrusting shallowly. His timing is perfect when he pulls out in time to come onto Chan’s chin and neck. The way he cleaves onto him makes the chain links on his neck pool at the fold of Chan’s leg, it shoots a cold jolt-shiver up his veins. They both pant as Bambam’s cock twitches against his chest, somehow he has the energy to turn around and lay on his side next to Chan.

“Fuck, you look hot.” Bambam takes two fingers through the white splatter on Chan’s throat then sucks it off, his thick lips smacking around the digits. Chan gulps as Bambam wipes more come off his face, then grabs Bambam’s hand and licks it off himself, making a point to suck slow on his fingertips.

Their breathing starts to even out and Bambam smirks, licking his lips. “You think you have another round in you? While I was waiting for you to come over, I cleaned myself out.” He kisses Chan tenderly, as if what he’s just said was some sweet nothing. “I _really_ wanna fuck myself on your cock.”

The choked-off noise that comes out of Chan embarrasses him. Bambam says shit like this so casually it catches him off guard, makes him realize that yeah, he really wants that too, even if the soreness is already settling into his neck muscles.

“Give me a minute.”

So they kiss more, lazily, giggling and touching with no urgency. Chan enjoying the smooth expanses of skin, Bambam tangling and untangling his fingers in Chan’s curls. They peck into each other’s cheeks with soft smiles, still tasting and smelling of wine. Bambam coos and pokes his pinky into one of Chan’s dimples, and he kisses the other with an exaggerated pucker. For some reason, that’s what makes Chan’s ears start to burn again.

He cups his hand on the side of Bambam’s face, strokes his thumb across the peak of his cheekbone, and he’s not sure if he imagines it or not, but he swears the gesture brings a blush to his face, like his touch leaves a trail of heat in its wake.

Chan’s smile is fond. “Cute.”

He slides his hands down Bambam’s back to rest his palm on his ass. At the first squeeze, their cocks twitch in unison. 

Bambam doesn’t break away, he keeps his mouth pressed to Chan and brings himself on top once again, grinding their cocks together, coaxing them to jump back to life. Chan takes both of them into his hand, still palming at Bambam’s ass. They’re two warm bodies making the most of the time they have together, pushing cautiously close to their limits, knowing this chance is rare and intimacy is scarce in their line of work. The pleasure’s all too fleeting so they have to make it last.

Bambam slips his hand under the pillow and pulls out a packet of lube. Chan bursts out in a laugh. “That’s where you keep it?”

“When I know company is coming,” the taller man tears at the corner of it empties some of it onto his fingers, handing the rest to Chan, who squeezes the cold fluid on his hand and rubs it into his palm, then pinches the packet closed and tosses it to the side.

He looks back to see Bambam has, at last, shed the kimono from where it was clinging to his arms and is already teasing himself, fingers massaging around his rim. Bambam’s admirably smooth and has no hair to speak of anywhere on his body, and Chan stares shamelessly at Bambam leaning back, one hand holding his dick and sac out of the way. He’s kneeling with his knees spread on either side of Chan, fingers inserting into his hole with practiced finesse. 

It’s always kind of hypnotizing when he does this, Chan can’t look away from how the muscles clench around his long fingers as he starts coating his own cock with the lube. Bambam muffles his own moans while he drags his fingers in and out, in and out, deeper and lingering longer every few times before he adds another finger.

“Look up at me, Chris.”

And he does, clouded eyes meeting equally clouded eyes that look even better up close, piercing through him unembellished by makeup or contacts or a red leather suit.

“I’m gonna ride you, make you feel so good.” His mouth hangs open as he stimulates his own sweet spot, jaw jutting out. “Gonna make us come again with your cock fucking me right.”

Chan feels himself melt at the words, at Bambam’s domineering look, knows there’s just as much trust as there is desire in what he says. It’s not a challenge because the playing field is level, despite him looming high over Chan, no matter what position they’re in. He gulps and watches him take his fingers out, feeling his body thrum with anticipation.

“Ride me.”

Bambam pouts almost disdainfully. “Magic word?”

Chan groans, he’s really still on this magic trick shit? But he’s too desperate right now, so he humors him, lets the teasing loosen him up even more. “Please, please ride me.”

Moving with all his summoned grace and confidence, he takes Chan’s cock in his hand and starts to align him with his hole. Chan’s nostrils flare at how absolutely tight he is, doesn’t hold back his obscene moan as he fills him to the hilt, but Bambam breathes easy, still holding him with that gripping gaze.

Bambam raises up and sinks down on Chan like he’s an expert in riding cock, which is honestly pretty believable. Like, Chan’s convinced. Every few thrusts has him subtly shifting angles and working his hips in delicious circles to disrupt any predictable pattern. It feels amazing, tight and thorough. Nothing’s felt this good, this indulgent and unrestrained, in a long fucking time. It's true for Bambam, too. Fingers and arms-length acquaintances can only achieve so much. And doing this bareback makes a world of difference.

It’s his lithe, barely-there frame working his cock with unbridled certainty, that makes him look like a god from where Chan lays beneath him. But Chan feels like he could have some divinity in him, too, with the way Bambam’s eyes fight to establish that he’s the one commanding movement and pleasure here, mixed with goddamn does it feel phenomenal being filled up so wholly.

Chan becomes bolder still, if he were in a different mind or with someone else, he might feel like a jackass doing this, but he puts his hands behind his head and just watches Bambam ride him, looking up at his fucked-out expression, biting his lip.

“Yeah? My cock feels that good? I know how much you like it, babe.”

God, he could kick himself. But Bambam's reply is a broken “ _yes, fuck, mm,_ ” as he ups the tempo, bounces their bodies on the mattress. It’s so different without the juvenile thump of headboard against wall, the bed is large and strong enough to hold its own and absorb everything they put into it. Chan takes advantage of it, digs his heels down to fuck up with everything he has. Bambam deserves it, he’ll give him his all and more.

“Chris, fuck me, _fuck me_ ,”

Chan’s name sounds like semi-crystalized syrup pouring from Bambam’s mouth, sweet and hazardous seeping through “oh”s and “God”s and decadent whimpers. The sharp incline of his jaw clenches and unclenches with real effort and bliss.

Bambam’s close now, holding himself up with one hand on Chan’s chest and the other frantically fisting his cock, chanting “fuck me, fuck me, God, yes.” His body bends and eyes screw shut, head lolling to the side as he groans and chases his second orgasm.

They’re both tired, but they need this, so Chan watches Bambam’s speed falter, then moves his hands to grip his hips and fuck up into him. Bambam keens, jacks his own cock harder and meets his thrusts with, “ _oh fuck, Chris, fuck me please, yes_ —” before he’s spilling onto Chan’s abdomen, whining with each spurt of come.

The sight alone hastens the building heat in Chan’s gut, and he grunts breathily with each final thrust before pulling out and finishing himself off. Head thrown back, hands and legs shaking as his own come joins Bambam’s on the lines of his stomach.

His vision is momentarily spotted out. Chan doesn’t think he’ll come better than that for a while. Secretly, he hopes Bambam feels the same.

The two of them breathe hard, unwilling to collapse just yet in their shared sheen of sweat and come.

In a conclusive act of vulgarity, Bambam curls down to lick the come clean off Chan’s torso, sucking and swallowing up every drop. Chan forces his eyes open to watch for future jack-off material, if and when he ever gets time to himself.

They lay there, Bambam in the crook of his arm, both wrapped up in that familiar comfort once again. Chan’s stupid enough to let it unguard him, lets himself be stripped further, and makes another confession.

“Can I tell you something? I was always jealous of you. Lowkey. I thought I had to work twice as hard to get to your level.”

Bambam scoffs, and looks bewildered. It’s sudden, but not unfamiliar.

“Are you kidding? Shit. Like, you guys are doing so much better than us. Better than we did when we were starting out.”

He tilts his head to look at Chan. “If I’m being real, all I’m good at is dancing. Looking expensive and exotic. And saying ‘skrrt skrrt.’ But you’ve got it all, Chris. The whole package. You know that movie Mulan?” Bambam stretches his arms behind his head, smiling with his eyes closed. “As a kid I watched it so much the DVD got all scratched up. There’s a part where her dad tells her something like, ‘the flower that blooms late is the most beautiful of all.’ I don’t remember exactly.” 

Bambam opens one eye at him like a prolonged wink. “I swear I’m not trying to be corny, but I think that’s about you, too.”

Feeling his heart swell and body shrink, Chan crosses his arms over his chest to try and hide himself. Too weary to feel flustered, but Bambam gives him that goofy smile again, and pulls him down for a kiss before they’re laying together.

“Hey. Please don’t be sad after we sixty-nined and fucked. Make me feel like my game weak, boy.”

Then Chan rolls his eyes while Bambam gives him a light shove, both wearing tired, comfortable smiles. His eyelids are laden with exhaustion, but not tears, as he formulates his escape plan. Even if he doesn’t want to. The longer he’s out of the dorm or company building this late at night, the stranger he feels.

“I’m just gonna… rest my eyes a bit. Then call... a taxi.” He trails off without realizing he’d started his sentence in English and ended it in Korean.

But right before he falls asleep, Bambam’s voice is soft and sweet, a surprisingly effective comfort against the strange, irrational necessity of leaving.

“No, stay. This bed’s too big for just me, and the dorm bed’s too small for just you.”

Peach candy, white wine, or somewhere in between, he wraps his too-long limbs around Chan. He’s right. Bambam’s bed is the perfect center, the ideal sweet spot between firm, barely adequate dorm bunks and the excessive sink of marshmallowy hotel beds when he travels.

Bambam hums into Chan’s neck and reminds him of how they felt as trainees, heaving with the weight of their future.

Except it’s not so heavy anymore. Not in this moment, holding each other. Here they can both shoulder the burden.

Maybe they are equals now.

**Author's Note:**

> Bambam is my Ultimate Boy but for a while I thought I wouldn't be able to write him or even view him in a remotely sexual light but here the fuck we are. I was hesitant to write "canon-compliant" because I hate making so many assumptions and speculations about off-camera idol life but again, here the fuck we are, it's RPF and this is a lawless land


End file.
